


Undeniable

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [11]
Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017)
Genre: Anal Play, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Come Eating, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-27 09:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Ren regards the object in the box with suspicion. Its shape suggests its function, but nothing is so simple where Hux is concerned. There is always some hidden motive, always some advantage he hopes to gain. "What is it?" Ren asks, feigning ignorance.





	Undeniable

**Author's Note:**

> I had some thoughts about Locktober. PWP but with some plot just to keep things moving. 
> 
> Originally posted to twitter, super super minimal editing for spelling and punctuation but otherwise appears as original. This was about 300 tweets worth of text before I decided to make everyone wait for the climax.
> 
> Many _many_ thanks to icicialle for the beta read!! Any remaining errors, esp in the final scenes, are my own.
> 
> Possible spoilery squick warning in endnotes?? I don't think it's a big deal but ???

Ren regards the object in the box with suspicion. Its shape suggests its function, but nothing is so simple where Hux is concerned. There is always some hidden motive, always some advantage he hopes to gain.

"What is it?" Ren asks, feigning ignorance.

"A chastity device," Hux declares matter-of-factly. He lifts it out of the box and turns it over in his hands. It's clear he doesn't intend to be the one wearing it. Ren refrains from pointing out the sizing disparity. He knows when to push. Now isn't the time.

The thing is made of smooth, high-shine steel. Ren would guess it's medical grade by the color and how light it seems in Hux's hands. In the box there is a pair of small keys. Hux takes them out, slides one into the cylinder at the open end of the device. It comes apart with an audible click as the pin disengages. The tiny sound reverberates in Ren's head. Hux sets the keys down and separates the pieces, a sturdy-looking ring and an open sheath.

"A cock cage," Hux says. His voice is low and the high points of his cheeks color.

"And who do you think is going to wear that?" Ren asks, wanting to make Hux say it, to hear him lower himself to describing the crude details of whatever he intends. Perfectly buttoned-up General, indeed. His need to command and control bleeds into all corners of his life.

"You of course, Supreme Leader," the whisper-tone whistles between Hux's teeth and lips. The tips of his ears go red. He places the ring and sheath down. They clink against the smooth glass of the touchscreen surface of his work console.

Ren places his knuckles against his lips, delicate and thoughtful. "Really?" He watches Hux separate one of the keys from the ring.

"Oh yes, Kylo. It's far too fine a thing for me." Hux unhooks his collar, pulls the hidden zip down just enough to free his identification tags.

"And who gets the key?" Ren is whispering, anticipation tickling his gut.

Hux closes the ring around his chain and tucks it and the tag away again. He deliberately closes the zip but leaves the collar. He pushes away from the console, chair gliding silently on the floor. He peels a glove off and lays it down, presses his thumb to an access port. It beeps and a drawer below the console opens. The drawer is full of very neatly arranged rows of data chips and holodiscs, full of secrets. Hux places the second key in the drawer and closes it. The access port beeps again and changes color from active green to steady blue.

"Not you," Hux whispers back, barely loud enough to distinguish.

Ren considers it for a moment. The ring looks comfortably wide enough. The sheath looks snug. "How long?"

Hux tents his fingers beneath his chin, one glove on, one off. "A week to start."

"When?"

"Tonight. After the Riosans leave."

"Where?"

"Here." In Hux's private offices, where he pulls the threads that connect the galaxy.

"Alright," Ren agrees, lightheaded and breathless before they've even begun.

It seems to take twelve more days for the Riosans to leave. Hux is irritated. He doesn't show it. He's perfectly civil and efficient. But Ren can tell. There is a particular twitch that gives him away. It's subtle, but there. Finally, Ren needs to intervene. He concedes to the lightest of their requests, that the Order begin utilizing their factories in exchange for reduced rates. They seem happy enough with it and agree to a date when the Order will begin production. It was likely all they wanted, poverty stricken as they are. It won't hurt to let them think they've gotten a leg up. Casterfo's legacy had damaged their reputation within the Order's hierarchy and planetary powers even after they had put him to death by the laws he'd helped to restore.

When the meeting is finally over and the Riosans are on their way to the transport bay where they will be shuttled to the other side of the valley to their ship, Hux is visibly relieved. Guarded and upright with his language in front of the staff that still mills around, he addresses Ren: "Our private meeting, sir."

"Of course, General. I'll be at your office shortly." Ren inclines his head respectfully and Hux nods, his heels clicking on the floor as he leaves the room. Ren takes his time making his way to Hux, stopping first in his own quarters to change into more comfortable clothing than the overworked formal attire that the galaxy seems to expect him to wear. So used to the Senate and their frippery, Ren would break them of it. He does fear, sometimes, that he will never grow used to the soft indoor boots that he puts on. His feet feel too light. He muses that he might install artificial gravity in the compound to alleviate the feeling. He supposes he's spent too much time on ships, wonders if Hux feels the same -- until he arrives at the appointed door.

Ren realizes he's been thinking about everything and anything but what's waiting for him here. He's not frightened, that's laughable. He could easily remove the cage without the key. He could make Hux give it to him otherwise. He's excited. Too excited. He doesn't want to appear over-eager. He hasn't engaged in anything like this particularly, but he's no blushing virgin. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself.

Ren is acutely aware of the dynamic at play here. The balance is delicate. He lets himself into the office, holding his head high over the threshold.

"Supreme Leader," Hux murmurs. He appears to be in the middle of a call. There are two figures projected over the console, bickering. Hux has turned the volume low, though not muted. He looks annoyed. Ren can't imagine what the call is about. "Gentlemen!" He snaps and both turn toward him, or at least turn toward their displays. "The Supreme Leader requires my attention at once. Solve this problem. Quickly. I will not tolerate my troopers harassed incessantly by these upstarts. Get rid of them or I will appoint someone who will." They answer with a chorus of affirmatives. Hux closes the channel without another word, a measure of threat and finality in it.

Even after so many years -- the mass defection orchestrated by the traitor, FN-2187 -- the trooper program is still the apple of Hux's eye. He's learned and refined and perfected, turned it into something new and terrifying. Ren's blood runs a little cold at the thought of it. An army of Phasmas with the selfishness trained out of them.

Thinking of the troopers distracts him from the systematic way Hux cuts security feeds inside the office and his quarters beyond, turning off audio and visual recording -- how he shuts down the console.

"Excuse me for just a moment," Hux says casually and disappears through the door to his quarters, bare hand scanned and confirmed just like the drawer. When he returns without his jacket and shoes, tags and key bouncing gently against his chest and bottle of lubricant in hand, Ren can't help but laugh.

"If you find this disagreeable, then--"

"No, no. It's just... nerves, I suppose." Ren leans casually against the work console. "I'm not--" he clears his throat, nerves truly flustering him now as Hux advances. "I'm not hard. I shouldn't need lubricant to get it on."

"It's not for you." Hux crowds him against the console and places the bottle down beside him. "Would the Supreme Leader not enjoy one last go before he... submits?"

Ren's mouth feels suddenly full of cotton. Hux tugs at his tunic, pulling it up from where it's neatly tucked into the waist of his trousers. With the shirt free, Hux pushes him back, pliable like flimsi with just the pressure of fingertips against his chest. He sprawls against the cool glass of the console, propped on his elbows.

Ren can do nothing but watch, too swept up in what's to come. Hux unfastens Ren's trousers and pulls out his cock with little ceremony, focus singular and and efficient. Ren's chest floods with heat, sweat prickling at his hairline. It's hardly effort spent with Hux's hands that know him so well. His palms are smooth and soft and dry, fingers long, grip just right. He twists his wrists and Ren gasps, the edge too close. Suddenly Hux's hands are gone and icy panic shoots through him, cock swaying with it.

Hux purses his lips, haughty with the spark of power beginning to smolder in his chest. He can smell it, Ren thinks, like overheated wiring. Hux undresses with purpose, discarding his undershirt and jodhpurs and shorts with little care. His confidence makes Ren feel small, never fails to.

"What are you waiting for?" Hux asks, idly stroking himself. Anyone else would have looked foolish in nothing but socks and garters, throat and stomach going rosy pink. "You've two working hands, don't you?"

Ren clenches his teeth, biting down on the retort threatening to escape. He shifts his weight, sits up. He knows what Hux expects. His General's desires are uncomplicated and upfront. Ren takes the bottle and uncaps it, spills the slippery liquid into his palm & strokes himself.

"Lovely," Hux whispers. It sounds foreign and wrong on Hux's tongue. "Enough," he says when Ren's legs are trembling. Hux is more limber than than he seems with his ramrod spine. He pulls himself up in an easy motion, arm hooked around Ren's neck, knee planted against the edge of the console. Ren must lean back to keep his balance, an arm around Hux's waist and the other holding them up.

"Supreme Leader," Hux says, sweet and low, "open your mouth."

Ren's befuddlement shows on his face. Hux repeats himself, each word punctuated sharply.

He rolls forward on his knees, brings Ren eye-level with the sharp jut of his collar bones. The arm around his neck squeeze tight. "Open your mouth," Hux says, utterly sober. His face flushes red when Ren finally complies, the barest hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips.

Hux reaches behind himself, eyes fluttering closed and a satisfied sigh ruffling Ren's hair. The plug is short and blunt, the curved shape of it just right to rest against Ren's tongue. The soft, textured silicone is warm with the heat of Hux's body.

Ren closes his lips, stem between his teeth. He moans.

He's thankful for the thing between his teeth when Hux sinks down, settling for just the briefest of moments before beginning at a brutal pace. Ren is never quite sure how it feels good, moving so fast and so hard that way. But it's Hux.

Climax hits him like a collapsed AT-AT, ground-shaking and all at once. He coughs around the mass on his tongue, doesn't dare spit it out. Hux grips his chin, fingers a vice even slick with the saliva Ren can't stop from slipping. He presses their foreheads together hard. With gritted teeth, Hux spills between them in short, hot bursts. Ren hardly has a care for his ruined shirt, too consumed by the tremor of Hux's legs and the biting of his nails.

Hux shakes, laughing out loud right in Ren's face. "I should leave you like this," he wheezes, "forget everything else and let you get back to your business just like this." Fatigue runs its fingers along Ren's spine. His arm, holding their shared weight upright, burns. "Or lock you up just like this." Hux drags Ren's face forward, grip still too tight on his chin. "Spent and wet. Let you figure out how to deal with it." He laughs again, high and light the way he does when he's well and truly drunk.

Hux hisses, lifting himself off of Ren's soft cock and sliding gracefully back to the floor. He runs his hand, wet with Ren's saliva still, through the fallen clumps of pomaded hair around his temples. The narrow expanse of his chest and stomach is splotchy with blush. His thighs shine with sweat and smeared lubricant. He holds himself casually, an affect learned only in the rudeness of cadets' barracks. His mouth curves into something cruel watching Ren ease the improvised gag from his mouth and flex his seized jaw.

"General," he growls, the tone born more of exhaustion and strain. "Remember yourself."

The cruelty melts from his features and he rolls his shoulders back. "Come," he says, "Have a shower. We'll discuss the rules of this game."

Ren lounges across Hux's bed, body dry and hair still dripping. He knows he's pressing buttons. The cage is there on bed, too, shining against the soft, dark sheets. Hux pulls the belt of his robe tight around his waist. He's soft like the sheets, hair clean and dry and bright.

"A week," he repeats, picking up their hours-old thread. "To start." Ren questions the caveat, wary of Hux's motives. "I might like it. You might, too -- giving it up to me, letting someone else make all those crude decisions. Letting me. When -- where -- how. It'll stay locked unless I decide otherwise, that's the only real rule." Hux's cheeks color again. He's getting distracted. "You'll be able to function perfectly fine without removing it." Hux steps closer and picks the cage up, turning it over in his hands. "Shall we begin?"

Hux sits beside him, far closer than he'd deign to be in any other place. "Should some emergency arise, how would you like to handle things?" His fingers sweep up Ren's bare leg, disturbing the natural fall of his dark hair.

"I'll have that key, Hux. The one you put away."

Hux frowns with his while face. "You will not."

"I will or this isn't happening." It takes him a moment to acquiesce. Ren doesn't need to make him.

"Are you ready?" He asks, voice fallen to a whisper again. Ren nods and he leans closer, hand settling into the heat at the join of Ren's legs. Fingers wrap around him, tugging gently at the velvety sheath of his skin.

"Don't," Ren warns. He's too close to this, chest full of a swarming mass of buzzing things. "You want your shackle to fit, don't you?" Hux's lip twitches in annoyance at the dig.

Ren watches with interest as Hux lifts his soft cock and slips the ring over it. He has to bite his lips, press them together between his teeth, to keep himself calm. The excited anticipation has shot through with dread.

Ren snorts, amused, dread dissipated in an instant. Hux grunts in frustration, unable to fit the ring properly. He flicks his eyes up toward Ren's face, ears coloring again.

"Two weeks," Hux whispers. "For insolence." Ren purses his lips, argues that they haven't even begun. "Three, then." Hux says, slipping the ring off and reconsidering.

Ren sits up abruptly, nearly upsetting Hux's place on the bed. His top lip curls into a snarl. "How about a month, General? I'll watch you get bored, ruin your own stupid game."

Hux barks out a laugh, his grip turning rough. "A month, then. We'll see who gets bored and who doesn't." He pushes Ren back down, hand holding the ring pressed against his chest. "Be still," he hisses.

"Ouch," Ren says purposefully when Hux pinches the delicate skin of his sac and tugs first one testicle through the ring and then the other. He breathes out in a rush and grips the sheets. Hux is pressing his balls against his palm, rolling them in a way that confuses the signals in his brain between pleasure and pain. Hux yanks the ring up more firmly than Ren thinks is strictly necessary and takes advantage of his softness, pulling his cock through the space left in the ring and pushing the skin-warm steel against his body. It's snug, overwhelmingly so, but not too tight. Ren is acutely aware of the weight of the steel against and around him, the way it makes his testicles and soft cock stand out from himself. It occurs to him that the cage will be difficult to wear discreetly. He also thinks, in a flash, that he's agreed to a more frustrating predicament than he initially considered. The ring isn't constricting now, he thinks he's getting used to it while Hux casually teases him -- tugging on his hair, pinching him, caressing his skin where it touches the ring -- but if he's aroused? Ren feels sweat raise on his lip, his face and chest flush hot and red.

Hux leans in close, speaks right next to Ren's ear. "Are you ready, Supreme Leader?"

"Do it before I change my mind," Ren mutters.

Hux's hand is suddenly slick and Ren isn't sure where Hux got the lubricant from. He strokes Ren once, twice, paying attention to his head and the sensitive bit of skin that protects it. He fits the cage on carefully after Ren has taken a breath, making sure that Ren's skin isn't bunched or pinched. He asks if it's comfortable, if it's painful at all? When Ren confirms that it isn't, he clicks the sheath and ring together. The pin hangs on the key, dangling beside Hux's tags. He slips it inside and turns the key. The lock engages with tiny sound, the mechanism hitting home. Ren's heart throbs in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears deafening.

Hux hovers over him, hand pressed into his hip. "How does it feel?"

The key and the tags brush against his chest from where they hang around Hux's neck. He puts his head back against the mattress, turning his face away. There is too much of Hux. Ren runs his hands down his belly, fingers moving over hot, tight skin and bumping against the bulge of the cage between his legs. It pulls at the root of him, stretching his skin subtly, pulling his cock and balls away from his body. The sheath is gently curved and snug.

He doesn't know how to feel. He is on display and yet entirely inert, useless. His cock is getting hard, or at the very least his brain is trying to tell it to. The closeness and unyielding structure of the sheath is like a too-tight hand. It hurts but it doesn't. It's frustrating. He can feel his damned heartbeat is his fucking cock against the steel.

"It's fine," he says.

Ren can't calm himself. He's too focused on what he's rapidly deciding has been a grave mistake, to allow Hux to have this particular power over him. He will be constantly, unceasingly aware of it. He wants to demand that Hux unlock the device or take the key from him now. 

Finally, a short eternity passes and he feels like there is solid matter beneath him again. His cock isn't quite throbbing anymore. His pulse has mostly calmed and his head isn't full of white noise.

"There you are," Hux murmurs. "Supreme Leader, you should rest. You're welcome to stay here."

Ren doesn't sleep. It shows. He looks tortured and gaunt. Sitting is agony for how aware it makes him of his predicament. His underclothes don't support the weight of the cage like he'd hoped. Pants of any kind are out of the question; he does not have the patience for constant adjustment nor the attention of the staff around him. Before he leaves Hux's quarters that morning, he's offered a soothing liniment to apply where the ring and the open end of the sheath touch his skin. He's grateful for it. At least he does not have the persistent tug of the steel against his skin to add to the list of things he does not want to think about. That even the most basic, primal parts of his day must be modified to accommodate this foolish game is an injustice in itself. The weight of the key he took from Hux's office around his neck is at the absolute barest, reassuring.

He can end this if he so chooses.

He won't give Hux that.

The day is winding down before he sees Hux again. "Supreme Leader, you're not looking well. Shall I send for an EmDee?" Ren rises from his seat behind the council table and moves toward the end of the room. The door there swings open with a small movement of his fingers. He steps out onto the balcony and fills his chest with the cool nighttime air. "Supreme Leader?"

Ren halts in the middle of the balcony and folds his hands behind his back. His long skirts flutter around his ankles in the breeze. "I'm fine, General. It's simply been a long day."

"I would expect so, sir. The Riosans are relentless. I'm to understand that the Arkanisian representatives have also arrived?" Ren asks if he has any personal investment in it. "Of course not, sir. Arkanis is my birthplace, nothing more."

The rest of the first week goes much the same way. Ren is sleepless, finding rest only flat on his back and waking any time he moves. Mornings are nightmarish, finding himself nearly in tears from frustration and discomfort while he stumbles toward the refresher.

Ren's personal staff bring more of the long, sweeping skirts and robes from storage, believing his preference for them as of late is a more permanent thing. Pairs of trousers and leggings disappear to make space in his dressing room. He cannot dispute it without revealing himself somehow. He lets them think him fickle in fashion. It's easier. He finds himself applying liniment simply to comfort himself, running through the small tube quickly. His skin becomes stripped and dry in that short time, frequent showers stealing the natural moisture from his body and hair in an effort to find some kind of physical relief and satisfy his mounting paranoia regarding his personal cleanliness.

On the eighth day, Hux takes pity on him.

"Supreme Leader, I believe that we are due for a private meeting this evening?" Hux catches Ren off-guard. He's just finished dressing down a gaggle of new colonels who seem to think that they have any sort of say in where their craft are sent. They believe security in the trade routes around Riosa to be beneath them. Ren is still reeling from the insolent backtalk when Hux approaches.

"Yes, fine," he snaps. "Come to my quarters after supper. I need a moment alone, General."

The rest of the room goes utterly silent, or at least it does for Ren. Hux steps in closely, clearly intending to say something in confidence. "I hope that your moment alone does not include taking your cock out of its cage, Kylo."

The bottom of his stomach drops out.

Ren picks at the supper he's brought, nerves alight and belly full of buzzing, fluttering things. He manages enough to satisfy the worst of the hunger that has been gnawing at him over the course of the day and sends the rest away.

Ren has settled into the lounge as much as he can, his mind racing. He wants out. He wants to be done with this foolish game. He'll tell Hux tonight. He won't ask. He will simply excuse himself, remove the cage, and declare that the game is spent. He won't live a month like this for his own stupid temper. He muses that the preceding week might not have been so difficult were he not conscious of what stretched endlessly before him; perhaps he will remove the cage before he lets Hux into his presence. Though whether he wants to dispose of it, give it back or keep it guarded here in his quarters, he cannot decide.

Hux arrives shortly after he dismisses the staff and orders the droid to put itself away. "Supreme Leader," Hux says with a short bow. Ren motions for him to sit and he continues. "You look terrible."

"How kind of you for noticing," Ren snarls. "Have you forgotten something?"

Hux touches his fingertips lightly to his chest, "How could I?"

Ren rises from his seat, anger spreading through him. "This is uncalled for. I'm tired of this -- your ridiculous attempts to undermine me, that's all this is, it's perfectly clear now. You can't can't put me on a leash to your liking so you'll bring me low in any way you can."

Hux frowns, the expression creasing his whole face. "Perhaps my methods weren't correct. I simply wanted to give you time to grow accustomed to it. Knowing you were so on edge was certainly a personal benefit, but I did not realize how taxing it was." He touches his chest again where Ren knows the key is resting. "Would you like to end it?"

He seems sincere. The flavor of his thoughts when Ren dips into them is as much. But it's Hux.

"No," Ren says. "We agreed on a month." Hux asks him if he's certain and he confirms.

"Kylo," he says, "allow me to draw you a bath, mm?" He moves toward the ostentatious bath at the far end of the equally ridiculous room. "Something we'll both enjoy."

"You don't like baths."

"I like _you_ in baths." Hux turns the water on and sits down on the edge. He keeps his eyes on Ren, first removing one glove and then the other. "Going to get those fine clothes wet?" he teases when Ren finally joins him.

Ren rolls his eyes and methodically undresses, draping his layers over the top of the silk screen beside the massive tub. He feels far more stripped than he ever has standing there with the gleaming steel cage between his legs with Hux's unyielding gaze and the sound of the tub filling.

"Oh, Supreme Leader," Hux says from someplace deep in his chest. "You look magnificent." Ren blushes and moves to climb into the tub. Hux stands abruptly, hands splayed on his bare chest to stop him. "Please, just a moment."

Ren doesn't know what to do with himself when Hux slips away. He tries to be natural, holding himself in the cage, nerves tingling with the tug on his root lessened. Hux removes his jacket, laying it too over the silk screen. He then stoops to remove his boots, tags and key swinging out in front of him. He unbuttons the fastener around his calf and rolls his jodhpurs above the knee. He removes his socks and garters and Ren wants to rub his fingers into the bright pink marks they've left on his legs.

"Please," Hux motions toward Ren's hands and he moves them. He takes the chain from his neck and reaches down. Ren is full of panic when Hux holds him, taking the weight of the cage into his hands. The pins of the lock click, disengaging. Slowly, carefully, Hux slides the sheath away. He must move just a breath closer to accommodate its curve. Red hot relief spreads through Ren from his groin to the tips of his toes and the top of his head. The touch of Hux's hands feels entirely foreign, wrong. With the same care Hux pushes one testicle through the ring, then the other, and eases it away from Ren's body. His knees turn completely to jelly. Hux holds out a hand and guides him up the little steps and then down into the still filling tub.

Tears prickle at his eyes, salty and embarrassing.

"Ow!" Hux pinches his arm and makes a scolding sound when he sinks down into the water, hands slipping below the surface. Hux sits tidily on the edge of the tub and swings his legs down, sitting behind Ren and bracketing his body. He maneuvers Ren into the corner, closer to the spigot. "Arms up here." He pats the marble, quickly warming with the water.

When Ren complies and the tub is sufficiently full, he turns off the water. He makes a soft sound of distaste, leaning toward the small cabinet full of bath implements. Ren doesn't dare turn to see what He's doing. Hux sniffs at something that then sails over Ren's head and plops into the water with a little splash. The steamy air fills with the scents of citrus and hanava fruit; the water bubbles and fizzles around him. Hux's toes press into his hips.

"What's troubling you, Supreme Leader?" Hux asks while he spreads his fingers through Ren's hair, pressing and rubbing against his scalp. The frame of his legs around Ren's body is grounding, firm, reassuring. His thighs under Ren's arms are corded and unyielding like the rest of him -- slender and strong. Hux is as much a cage as the steel prison he'd locked Ren's most vulnerable parts up in. "Are you in serious discomfort? Or are you simply distressed that your cock is not being adequately worshiped?"

Ren ignores the meanness of Hux's remarks. He knows his General's tells. Hux massages at his scalp with a rougher hand for a moment. Ren's body is tingling the way a limb that's sat in one position for too long does. His chest feel like it's been cracked open, sternum sweetly split. His head is empty and light. His cock is impossibly hard and every bit of his focus is trained on it. He curls his hands into fists against the warmed marble of the tub. Hux's thumbs press into the back of his neck. His spine crackles with sensation.

Ren struggles to find adequate language to describe to Hux how the cage has made him feel. It's not physically uncomfortable, at least not after the first few days. But it is unceasingly present. The close grip of the steel, the weight of it, the way it holds him.

He's forced to modify so very many things that should come naturally -- the way he sits, stands, walks -- for stars' sake, the way he takes a piss! He must dress to accommodate the bulk of it, even as sleek and perfectly fitted as it is. He is exhausted -- both from the lack of sleep and the vigilance wearing the cage requires. He cannot consume anything beyond supper for fear of waking in discomfort and disrupting the few hours of rest that he has managed.

The worst, he explains, is the feeling of starvation that has settled into his bones. He is not hungry for food, but for touch. The sensation of an intimate touch would be gratifying, satisfying, utterly relieving. But he has also been denied the simple comfort of washing and dressing and grooming. He aches in the impersonal embrace.

"I see," Hux murmurs. His weight behind Ren shifts and he passes a stiff sponge and a fragrant bar of soap forward. He leans in when Ren takes it. "Don't even think of it," he whispers, his tone soft and sweet. "When you're through, I'll do your back."

Ren trembles as he bathes, rubbing the fresh smelling soap into his bath-warmed skin. He takes his time, scrubbing until he is scoured pink. Hux takes the sponge and soap from him and makes him lean forward. Dry hands move his hair out if the way and begin work on the back of his neck and shoulders.

Satisfied, Hux makes him stand. "Turn around," he orders gently when Ren faces him. The sponge is softened from use when from behind him, Hux rubs the soap into his hips and the small of his back. The scratchy surface of it is like being drunk on counterfeit toniray against his backside and sweeping forward to his pelvis. Hux's foot smacks against the inside of his ankle under the clouded water and he widens his stance a little. Carefully avoiding his persistent erection, the sponge glides into the join of leg and groin.

Ren feels warm from the inside out. He feels elastic and weak. The sponge plops into the water and Hux's hands are on him. They glide over his stomach and chest, fingers raking and rubbing at his nipples, already flushed dark with all of the heat. They grip and rub and roll at the muscles of his fore and upper arms. They stray back to his hips and Ren cannot stop the mortifying gulps and glugs that fall out of his mouth. He sags back against Hux. His backside is kneaded, first one side and then then other while Hux supports him with an arm looped around his waist.

Ren gasps at the gentle caress of Hux's fingers slipping into his cleft, pressing against his hole and the retreating. A broken sob echoes in the room, or maybe just in his head, with a firm grip on his balls and the devastating sensation of Hux's hand on his cock. He rubs where the skin settles into little folds, pulled back under the head, he massages in firm circles at the root and reaches down behind, pressing his fingers into the space behind Ren's sac until he does cry. Tears of relief fall freely over his cheeks.

And then Hux is gone. Ren must sit back down in the water lest he fall and crack his head.

"Rinse off, collect yourself." Hux stoops to pick up the pieces of the cage and goes to the wide basin of the sink, running the water for a few seconds until it is warm. "I'll join you in bed shortly, Kylo."

Ren drains the tub, the level of the water falling quickly around his body. Hux seems to be taking his time at the sink. Kneeling in the tub, the remaining fizzles of the tablet Hux had thrown in bursting around his calves and tickling his toes, Ren turns the spigot back on and cool water flows into the tub. With shaking hands, he takes up a dry sponge from the artfully arranged pile and wipes the soap from his skin. The water makes him shiver, even just cool, and he works as deliberately as he can manage. Dismay seizes his gut when he sways and begins to flag.

Everything in him is confused. He wants to come, hope Hux allows it -- scolding himself for even entertaining the idea that Hux might be able to _allow_ him anything. But what then, if he does, is the point of this foolish game? The stubborn part of his brain insists he doesn't need it, doesn't want it. He's made it so far. He's been denied things far more vital for far longer stretches over the course of his training in the Force -- before Snoke and after. This is just like that. Designed to allow him to be more aware of and in tune with the rest of his body.

With unsteady legs he climbs out of the tub and crosses the cavernous space to his bed. He's not as hard, but still. It's there and it hurts, so hard and so ignored for so long. Hux's teasing wasn't helpful, if that's what it was.

Ren perches on the edge of the mattress, gripping the bedding and clenching his toes. "You're putting it back on," he says when Hux finally approaches. It's more a statement than a question, he knows what's coming. There are still three weeks for their game to play out.

"Of course, Supreme Leader." There's a cruel edge to Hux's tone. "Unless you'd like to finish it now. I defer to you in all things."

He raises a brow and sits down beside Ren. The pieces of the cage clink together in his hands. The front of his clothing is damp. The heat of the water has softened the pomade in his hair.

"You'll have to relax," Hux coos. "Won't work otherwise, you know."

He moves to pick up the tube of liniment from the bedside table, frowning at how depleted it is. He pushes Ren back by the shoulder, making him lay. He traces his fingers through the hair at his root, scrutinizing the state of him, much to Ren's frustration. "Have you needed this much? If it's hurting your skin, then -- "

Ren catches him by the wrist and plants Hux's hand on his stomach. "No, it hasn't hurt me."

Hux squints in disbelief, demands assurance that there's been no irritation or broken skin, no sickness of flesh.

"No," Ren says firmly, eyes squeezed shut. Realization dawns.

"Oh," Hux breathes, "you've just _needed_ it." His fingertips dig into the hard plane of Ren's abdomen. "That must stop, there are no loopholes in this arrangement."

Ren's cock twitches and he lets out a dry sob. "Yes, General."

Hux's hands move over his body, offering mean touches that distract from other discomforts. He rakes his fingers hard down the length of Ren's thighs, digging in and following the lines of the long muscles. Ren clenches and flexes and tightens, calves tightening too far and toes curling claw-like against the plush pile of the carpet around the bed. In drawnout agonizing moments, he is soft again, but his frustration isn't ended.

Clear, betraying fluid leaks from him, making a mess of his stomach and thigh where his cock finally rests, beading in the delicate folds of skin around the head. He has not come, he has not gained relief. Arousal is still tight and too-present in the fine muscles of his groin and the nerves behind his sac; it is still molten in the pit of his gut and leeches up into the back of his throat. He pants with the pain in his calves, trying desperately to unflex his toes.

"Shh." Hux is trying to quiet him, forehead to his temple and breath hot across his cheek.

Tears spring to his eyes again when Hux slips the ring back into place. Even with liniment smeared around the circumference, Ren is too sensitive for this. Though the slide of himself into the ring is far easier, the doing of it is not. Hux spreads just a bead of the liniment on his shaft and before Ren can make sense of any feeling of protest, the sheath is in place. The click of the lock feels like a sentence.

"Come," Hux says as he sits up. "You're exhausted. I'll stay the night if it pleases the Supreme Leader."

Hux is gone when Ren wakes. He feels as though he's slept a thousand years, coming up out of it slowly like he's swimming through a tank of chilled bacta -- viscous, jellied. He feels rested. When he comes fully to consciousness he's aware of the cage, how it feels against his leg. He shifts and it tugs at his root. Arousal still lingers, fizzy and bright, but he's not quite gripped with distress the way he as been.

The staff has been through the room. The tub is shining and dry, ghosts of wet footprints gone from the floor. His clothes aren't over the screen, but his copy of the cage's key on its delicate chain is laid discreetly on the bedside table. There are clothes laid out for him, something that he's never asked for or required. There are close-fitting leggings made of supple synthleather, a long tunic and belt, and a sweeping robe to layer over everything. Ren frowns at the selection, feeling that someone has over-stepped their bounds. He takes his time with his daily ablutions and dresses in the selection regardless, mind too heavy with all that the day will hold to make any other choices.

The day's business is frustrating and mind-numbing. Ren teeters between exasperation and rage. There are complaints that the Kessel trade and travel routes are overrun with smugglers and criminals. They complain as if this is a new development.

Ren makes it through the day without throwing anyone across the room and he lists it as an accomplishment. He is sitting in the gardens behind the formal audience chamber hiding from the representative from Corellia when Hux finds him well after dusk.

"Supreme Leader," he inclines his head by way of bowing and asks if Ren would mind company. Ren makes a vague gesture toward the empty end of the seat he's occupying. Hux sits, flicking his coat out behind him so it's not crushed. "You like the selection, then?" Ren looks at him in confusion for a moment. "The clothes, Kylo. Are you more comfortable today?"

Realization hits him. He'd resolved to dragging his personal staff in for a talking to. Someone was far too confident in their intimacy with their Supreme Leader.

"You -- you laid the clothes out this morning?"

"Mm. I thought the leggings would be a bit more," he clears his throat, raises a brow, "supportive. Was I right?"

Ren opens his mouth and closes it again, he nods and looks away. "My comfort is improved, yes."

"Good," Hux's confident snobbery bleeds through into the air around him. "You slept quite well, I was surprised."

"You left."

"You were asleep before I even made it into bed. I thought it best to let you rest."

"My staff saw you out then."

"I told them we worked through the night. They assumed it was the Kessel issue, asked if you needed breakfast early before the representatives arrived. I told them you were going to rest for a few hours, not to disturb you."

"The bath -- "

"Don't worry yourself, Kylo, I was discreet. There was no indication we did anything but work. Did you not see the maps and flimsies out on the table?" Ren had assumed Hux left them out, that he'd risen early to work and thought nothing more. "I hope you rest well again tonight, Supreme Leader."

Ren catches his sleeve when he begins to stand. "We won't be meeting tonight?"

"I don't stop being your top-ranking general or the commander of your army simply because your cock wants attention, Supreme Leader." His lips curl and his eyes darken. "You'll survive."

On the twelfth day, Ren thinks he'll be satisfied.

He is using the corridors hidden beneath the palace to travel from one end to the other. He is totally alone for the first time in weeks so he's taking his time and enjoying the quiet and the solitude. It takes a few moments when he first descends into the corridor for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lights and the pattern in which they flicker to life and douse again as he passes. Nearly halfway across the compound he stops, sensing someone close.

"General," he says, as the lights ahead flicker on and Hux emerges from one of the hidden stairs.

"Supreme Leader." Hux smiles and steps into the corridor, under the light. "I was on my way to find you. I thought we might take supper together, review our deployment to PZ-43."

Ren shakes his head, "You can call it the Crait System, General."

"All the same, Supreme Leader. Shall we?"

Ren had intended to have a private holocall with his Knights.They were so far-flung for so long, hunting down the last of Snoke's holdings and seizing them. "Fine, lead the way."

When they arrive at Hux's quarters Ren begins to ask whether he would prefer to order supper now or later. Hux shushes him, sliding behind his desk. He activates the work console and shuts down the surveillance feed. There has been some push back from the security division for this practice, to which Hux insisted that there were matters discussed between the Supreme Leader and his topmost commander that must remain entirely confidential. They'd continued to argue until Ren stepped in and put an end to it.

It was true, they did occasionally discuss such matters. But they also strove to keep their personal relationship as anonymous as possible. They would not have come to the decision to sentence Mitaka and Thanisson for crimes against the Order otherwise.

"Hux, is this necessary?"

"I would say so." With the feed cut and the console locked, Hux is out from behind his desk again in a flash. He crowds Ren against the wall, slipping his hands beneath his outer robes and groping his sides. His nose is pressed to the hollow of Ren's throat, just between his collar bones. "You haven't taken it off," he breathes in deeply as he says it.

Ren fists his hands in Hux's coat, holding on tight. "No, of course not." His faces glows with blush when he says it.

"How does it feel?" Hux asks.

"Good," Ren chokes when Hux slips a hand between his legs, tracing the curve of the cage through his leggings. "Wonderful."

Hux makes a broken sound and presses himself as close to Ren as he can bodily manage.

"Hux, please," Ren whines. " _Please_." He rubs himself into Hux's desperate embrace. "Please."

"I know, I _know_ ," Hux babbles. "I know." He pulls at the fabric wrapped around Ren's waist, tugging without finesse until the folds fall free. He pushes the outer robe off of his shoulders. He drops to his knees, wincing, and presses his face to Ren's thigh. "I know."

Hux peels down the leggings with clumsy hands, laughing out loud at Ren's lack of undergarments. He sits back on his heels, mouth open and eyes heavy, appraising.

"Hux, _please_ ," Ren begs and he seems to snap out of it. His eyes flick up, the gossamer veil of his lashes hiding something. He moves in, hands insistent on Ren's thighs. His breath is hot and humid, condensation growing briefly on the steel sheath. He leans forward, nose tracing the path from his hip to his belly, lips moving over coarse, glossy hair and bumping into the ring.

Hux presses something that looks like a kiss to the lock. "I know."

Hux spreads his knees, sinking lower, pressing his nose and lips against the curve of Ren's sac, pushed forward so unjustly by the ring. He reaches up, pressing his thumbs into the crease of Ren's thigh, pressing into nerves that makes his legs tingle and his toes flash hot. Ren's voice catches thick in his chest and he's grateful for the wall behind him and the solidity of the floor under his feet. He doubles over, one hand gripping Hux's padded shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around a hank of stiff, pomaded hair.

"Hux," he sputters. He breathes in, sharp and harsh. Hux opens his mouth, covering as much of Ren's flesh as he's physically able. His mouth is warm and wet and alive and everything that Ren has been missing -- wanting -- needing. "Hux, please," he begs.

Hux groans, digging his fingers into Ren's hips. He drags his lips across the sheath, saliva beading across the shined steel. The lock at the top of the ring presses into Ren as he moves, taking the end of the sheath between his lips. Ren sobs, truly broken.

Hux breathes and Ren can feel it, soft and humid against his starving flesh. Hux opens his mouth wider, leaning in and meeting the warmth of Ren's balls with the warmth of his lips, soft against tight and straining. Ren feels Hux's tongue just there, just out of reach against the slit at the end of the sheath. Arousal spreads through Ren, pinging around like a pirate through hyperspace. His cock is straining, filling and getting as hard as he can manage against the curve and the grip of the sheath.

"Stars, Hux, please!"

Ren shakes and holds onto Hux's face, forcing him to look up and nearly making choke on the unforgiving metal of the sheath. Ren wishes so dearly that he could feel it. It is tempting -- so tempting -- to simply end it. To demand that the game cease, to be unlocked, to demand that Hux continue properly or not at all.

Hux's face is flushed with the deepest blush Ren has ever seen on him. His cheeks have gone bright, frightening white where Ren's fingertips press in. Hux backs off, breathing labored and chin wet. He shakes off Ren's grip, turning his head and catching Ren's fingers in his lips. Ren watches in horror and delight as Hux sucks daintily, first on the tip of his index finger, then the middle, then both. He moves in slowly, dragging his tongue over friction ridges and creases, scraping his teeth along knuckles.

Hux sucks hard, hollowing his cheeks and crading the fingers on the curve of his tongue. The wetness of his mouth is overwhelming. He turns and pivots and brings the palm of Ren's hand against the curve of the sheath. Ren needs to brace himself against Hux's shoulder once again for fear of falling. He's reeling, confused and upset and ludicrously happy, filling up with relief that threatens to burst out of his chest. Heat wells in his stomach and races up from his toes and suddenly he's coming, cock swollen and pulsing inside the sheath. It drops from the opening where his head is pressed, hot and thick and fast. It pools in the folded waist of his leggings and smears against the collar of Hux's jacket. The pulse of it ripples for endless seconds, stealing the breath from his chest.

"Hux, please," he whispers, yanking his trembling hand away and sinking to his knees. He sags against his General, face pressed into his shoulder. Ren is empty, bereft. He is relieved and still wanting. The spark of his peak shakes him again and again.

Ren realizes at some point that his face and mouth are sweat, his neck slick with sweat, his backside cold against the wall. He also realizes that Hux is petting him, stroking his hair and his back. "Get off of me," Ren mumbles, awkwardly pulling away.

Hux clutches at his face, rubbing his thumbs through tears and spit. "You're so good, Kylo, so lovely." His eyes shine, feverish and hungry. "So good."

"That's enough, Hux."

"Wait! Wait, please, just -- just stay there, please."

Ren halts, thighs tense half between kneeling and rising. Hux tears at his belt, buckle clattering on the floor when it falls. The hook-and-eye closure of his jodhpurs pings off of Ren's stomach and bounces on the floor between them. Hux has all the enthusiasm of an inexperienced cadet hiding in a broom closet when he finally whips his own cock out. He spits noisily into his palm and strokes like his next promotion depends on his speedy performance, face growing ever redder. He lets out a frustrated whine and falls forward, planting his nose back in that shallow dip at the base of Ren's throat. Abruptly, he grabs at the cage, tugging on it weakly while his hand flies. He well and truly ruins the jacket when he finally reaches the crest and crashes, front tails flopped down over his cock and his hand.

Hux gulps in great heaving breaths as he collects himself, sitting back on his heels. He unfastens his collar and breathes more freely, messy hand and messier cock still hidden. "You should -- we -- a shower. You must get yourself cleaned up, Supreme Leader."

"Yes, General," Ren says, stunned.

Hux spends seven days in Ren's bed.

That twelfth night had been ground-shaking. Want and need still twisted Ren's gut, perhaps more so than ever before. He'd stepped into the shower with Hux, bewildered by the reverence with which he'd unlocked the cage and set it aside on the sink.

Ren did not allow Hux to wash him, Hux's touch too tender and too selfish in the aftermath. Ren simply showered in his presence, following the practiced dance in and out of the spray of the water.

"I'm finished," he said quietly, holding himself with a measure of embarrassed modesty.

"Wait, Kylo, I'll -- "

"No," he answered, quiet and firm. He stepped from the shower and into the path of the drier. He paused in front of the sink, hesitant and unsure. The water in the shower still ran and he knew Hux was waiting, could sense his hesitance, too. Ren washed the cage. Shining and clean, just a touch of liniment nicked from Hux's cabinet to ease the way, he slipped the ring and the sheath back in place and used the key that dangled around his own neck to lock them in place.

Ren banishes his staff, mouse droids alone allowed to tend to the room. He makes excuses that he and Hux are in confidential talks. It is not unusual for Ren to send the staff away when he contacts the Knights. They put up little argument, insisting only upon bringing meals at appointed times.

Much of Hux's work, Ren knows, may be done on a datapad. That which cannot, he is given free use of Ren's personal console. Alerts chirp as the unfamiliar access codes are tapped in. Ren dismisses them and the irritated calls from security, already upset with Hux.

They move from the bed to the bath to the balcony and back again. They take their meals outside. Ren needs the air, the space. Hux's presence is oppressive. He wants him close -- wants him to get away. He feels like his body is on fire. Sometimes a low smolder, sometimes a blaze. It has become all that he can focus on. His mind wanders when Hux sleeps and he attempts to work, centering on the dull but persistent pull of the cage at his root and the feel of each thread of his clothing against his skin.

The endless hours of Hux come to no fruition. Hux never touches his cock, never frees him from the cage, never _breathes_ below Ren's waist. That is not to say that Hux never touches him. Ren yearns for the moments when Hux's hands are not on him, not near him.

Hux lies beside Ren, fingers light and gentle along his midline, his spine. He traces the curves of every muscle, every bone, the jut of each joint and socket. He kneads flesh -- pulls -- pushes -- parts. He rubs salt and oil into Ren's skin and Ren returns the gesture, learning and relearning each plane of Hux's body, scrubbing sweet pink grain in until his skin matches, warm and rosy.

Hux sits behind Ren on the edge of the tub, bracketing his body while he rubs tension into and out of his neck. He dares a chance in the water, straddling Ren under the cover of soap and oil and herb. He rakes his fingers through Ren's hair, roughly tugging at snags, scratching at his scalp until the soles of his feet tingle and his spine is wobbly.

On the twentieth day, dawn breaks. Sunlight, high frequencies tinted just slightly lavender through the upper atmosphere's layer of heavy gases, creeps across the floor. Fingers of it through the curtains reach for Ren and Hux, tangled in the dense bedding, floating on the platform of the bed and the cool air blowing through the vaulted chamber room. Ren stirs, puffing errant strands of hair from his face, and buries himself further into the nest of pillows around him.

The sun is bright and high, the room lit without artificial aid, when Hux finally wakes. He stretches, limbs and back popping and settling, and lays himself back into the deep dent in the body-warm fabric, nose and forehead butted up against Ren's shoulder.

"Supreme Leader," he murmurs, "this is a dangerous thing to grow accustomed to."

Hux molds his body to Ren, his enthusiasm for waking unsubtle. He is strange and luxurious in a pair of pants from Ren's closet, cinched tight around his narrow waist. Even so frequently bathed and undressed, the scent of pomade seems to cling to him. Ren shifts, silent save for the soft noises of the morning, ever mindful of the pressure and weight between his legs. He does not need to rush from the bed. He is not uncomfortable. He is wrung out, exhausted by touching. He wants to sink back into sleep.

Hux's teeth scrape affectionately across the bulk of his shoulder, closing in a soft bite at the scruff of his neck. He moves in a squirming, awkward way, caught up in the sheets, toward the foot of the bed. He stops, breathing hot and steady against the small of Ren's back. Hux bites, experimental and halting, at the curve of Ren's ass. He feels it like he might count Hux's teeth there against his skin.

"Our breakfast is probably getting cold," Ren mumbles into the pillows. Hux laughs, low and dark, and bites again,  _harder._

He bites a pattern across Ren's backside, first one cheek, then the other moving up over the curve and down against the crease of his thigh. "What are you doing?" Ren asks, mind foggy. It's nice, he supposes, the change from so much touching.

"Breakfast," Hux muses.

An image flashes through Ren's imagination: Hux licking his fingers, grease shining on his lips, something roasts over a fire. Ren laughs into the pillow, covering his face. He needs to get out of these rooms; he's going to go mad.

Hux's hands are on him, and the burn and stretch of the delicate skin at the start of his cleft is familiar. Hux bites and sucks right there at the top where he threatens to split open, and Ren is sure he'll leave tiny purple pinpricks behind -- just like his arms and legs and stomach and chest -- he's become like a holoneg of the bright plum night sky beyond the window, a white backdrop for purple smears and spots. Hux's tongue is warm and too wet while it makes lazy strokes there, dipping deeper, lower into the valleys of Ren's body each time. Hux licks at his hole, tentative and then full of certainty.

Awareness clicks in all corners of Ren's mind. "Oh," he breathes. "Breakfast."

Ren has had this pleasure before, but he has not had it from Hux. He never thought to ask, always having come naturally before, and his General has never offered. Hux's mouth on him is startling. Ren relaxes into the persistent grip of Hux's selfish hands and the slip-slide of far too much saliva. It drips over the swath of skin below his hole, and Hux dares to suck his greedy, loud marks there are well. He shifts and backs away, Ren's legs spread around his shoulders. He traces the underside of the ring where it sits against him. Ren cannot quite feel it, but he knows Hux is touching the end of the sheath as well. Hux flicks hard at the ring with his fingertips, barking out a laugh when Ren gasps and jumps.

Hux makes a meal of him, dragging tongue and teeth over every last inch of skin. Nerves spark with the input, too many signals at once -- hot, wet, soft, sharp, hard, pain, not-pain. Ren cannot lie still for all of it.

He gropes at the bedding, paws at it desperately before finally curling into himself and pushing back onto his knees. Hux follows him, expertly connected, letting Ren dictate their motion. Ren expects Hux to thwart him somehow, to push him back down or to pull away and leave him there undone and unsatisfied.

He doesn't.

Hux is loud, expressing his own delight with deep, wanton sounds -- a hand that grip Ren's hip, keeping Ren's ass against his face, and an arm that wraps around Ren's waist. Needy, immediate arousal catches in Ren's pelvis and spirals out through his core and his limbs. He boils and he's sure he's going to fall apart until finally -- relief.

Cool, liquid relief pushes all of the heat away and with it all of the strength in his limbs. There is a strange sound ringing in his ears as he slumps back into the mattress. After a moment Ren realizes that the strange sound is coming from him, a long, low moan that ends only when he runs out of breath. He doesn't come, doesn't need to. His body is like a stone, dense and blank. It's satisfying.

With heavy eyes Ren looks over his shoulder at Hux. He is flushed with color, eyes bright and hungry. His face is wet, fine string of saliva hanging from his bottom lip that he wipes away with the back of his hand.

"Kriffing -- karking -- fucking stars, Kylo."

He plants his hands at Ren's waist and slides forward like an inept pleasure servant, massage not their forte.

"I just..." his lips find Ren's ear. "Fuck! I want to fuck you."

Cool, molten pleasure flows through him again. "So do it, Hux, fuck me," he pleads quietly against the bedding. Hux pauses, breathing deeply and rubbing his face into Ren's hair.

"No."

Hux fumbles between them, pulling at the knot at his waist until he can push his borrowed pants down. Hux is hard, steadily dripping. He levers himself up and spits crudely into his hand, spreads it over himself. He presses his forehead between Ren's shoulders, fitting himself neatly into his spit slick split. Hux whines over his first few stuttering thrusts, rolling his hips as if he cannot tolerate the touch. The shaking of his arms is too naked, too bared. He finds some semblance of rhythm, continuing to push even as the makeshift lubricant dries against Ren's skin. He cries out, plaintive and low, and spills in a pool at the dip of Ren's back.

Hux slumps awkwardly against Ren, back arched like a cat to avoid his own mess. He is whispering something unintelligible and Ren gets the distinct impression he's not meant to hear or understand. Hux moves after a moment, groaning with stiff limbs and a heavy head. His lips drag carelessly across Ren's back, sticking and peeling, no smooth, romantic glide. He curves and crouches at the end of Ren's spine, his tongue still thick with surprise. With long, deliberate strokes, he licks the cooling come from Ren's skin.

Ren is ruined, his mind a wash of color and light and sound. The only feeling he can make sense of is the physical, immediate sensation of Hux's mouth.

They break their fast and Hux leaves him. Ren does not leave his bed, too exhausted to think much less do the duty he murdered for.

On the twenty-fifth day, Ren stands in the middle of his dressing room, angry and as hard as he can be. He catches the key around his neck and yanks it, snapping the fine chain. Stomach clenched tight, he grabs at himself, fingers pulling at the cage. He jabs at the lock with the key once, missing and stabbing at web of his thumb. He jabs again, breath held, and slides the key home.

Ren starts to turn the key and his gut swims with mixed anticipation and panic. He could be done with this. So simply. He feels the resistance of the lock, the final click of pins into place before the key  _really_ turns, before the mechanism disengages.

He stops, hands falling away abruptly. He winces at the tug at his body, the dull presence flaring to life. He makes a frustrated sound as the chain dangling from the key tickles his thigh, catching in his hair. He looks foolish, feels even more so. He seizes the broken ends of the chain and yanks the key from its seat. He throws it across the room, satisfied by the clink and skitter as it hits the smooth floor and slides with the momentum its built. Ren plunders his drawers in search of a fresh pair of synthleather leggings.

He will have some relief, even if it is not the kind that the most primitive parts of his mind yearn for. The Finalizer awaits, hovering just above the atmosphere. His shuttle waits, too, at his leisure. Newfound dregs of resistance have clustered around the remnants of the Hosnian System. They orbit the fledgling black hole created in the Cataclysm and tout a new generation of Force users -- ones defined neither by Dark or Light -- and beg the galaxy to follow them.

If the black hole will not swallow them, Ren will.

Putting on the sturdy boots and surcoat and cloak feel like slipping into a familiar, well-worn skin.

He almost forgets about the ridiculous contraption between his legs.

The household staff, his commanders, the troopers that live at the compound -- they hush and make themselves scarce when Ren stalks through the halls. The walls have ears and eyes, he knows this, and he wants a message sent very clearly.

Supreme Leader Kylo has never stopped being Kylo, Master of the Knights of Ren -- the Jedikiller -- the Stareater. Hux falls in step as he passes through the main communications hub.

"The Ren are en route. They'll arrive in the Hosnian System perhaps an hour after we do at their current rate of travel."

"Good," Ren answers. "My shuttle?"

"Ready for departure when you are, Supreme Leader."

"And data on their craft? Guns, personnel, shields."

"They're flying a fleet of antiques, per usual. Our informants believe they may attempt to board us."

"Idiots," Ren mutters. "We'll take off at once."

"Of course, sir." Ren feels at home, energy crackling in his limbs and fingers, lifting the fine ends of his hair. The weight of the saber at his belt, so disused of late, is like a guiding beacon. He -- the Order -- will deal with this annoyance swiftly.

The shuttle ride is over in the blink of an eye, up through the planetary shields and into the hangar of the Finalizer. In another blink they are on the bridge. Ren sits at the main command console while his General paces the bridge, issuing commands at lightning speed. Holos pop up on the console and stand at full size along the front of the bridge. Those craft under the Finalizer, under Hux's direct control, await instruction as they hurtle toward the Hosnian System through hyperspace. Cool, liquid satisfaction spreads out from Ren's core. His scalp tingles as if with the sweet scratch of manicured nails. It won't be long. They will disperse or they will die. There are no other options.

The pull of the Force when they break through hyperspace is overwhelming, like a wave crashing against the shore, one that rips seaside homes from their bearings. There are Force users aboard, many of them. While there is only one outcome, it will not come easily.

Hux begins to shout, directing fire at the main cruiser and launching fighters in opposition. Ren rises from his seat, the wave crashing again.

"Stop," he says, soft tone cutting through the organized chaos of a bridge at war. Hux cannot speak. He shouts fruitlessly. "Direct fire there, at those defense shields."

"At the moon, sir? There's nothing there. It was the Republic's fleet depot." Unamo's expression is cautiously confused.

"There is, I assure you. This fleet is a distraction. Take those shields out. Make a hole so my Knights may make landing." Hux is red with anger, sweat beading at his temples and on his lip. "Now!" Ren roars across the bridge.

The Finalizer can handle the craft. Their commanders are not aboard. They are foolish to think that a cheap trick will be so effective. Fighters pour through the hole that the Order has punched through the moon's defense. Ren stalks down to the hangar. The Silencer is waiting.

When his boots hit the ground, and he breathes in the impossibly familiar air of the Hosnian moon, Ren feels sickeningly at home. In another life he might have been _here_  during the Cataclysm, jumping into a ship and zooming off to defend the Republic.

The Resistance is waiting for him. Encountering them is like walking into a solid wall. "You've been learning," Ren says, strained. "So have I."

The troopers are tougher, smarter, faster, hungrier. The Knights are thirsty for victory. The Resistance is desperate and scared, but they are determined. They think they have hope on their side. A spark. A flame.

They're wrong. Ren takes all of it.

In the end the hangars and repair bays are smoldering, bright white walls dirtied with smoke and soot. Death rattles in the chests of dying men and Ren steps over them, saber crackling.

"You were wrong," he says before the light snuffs out. "I couldn't ever be as strong as Darth Vader -- because that wasn't enough. I had to be more." He pauses, extinguishing his blade. "I am more."

The bridge is silent when Ren re-boards.

He sinks wearily into the seat at the command console. Hux is still steadily giving orders. Unamo approaches, her headset resting around her neck and clammy with sweat.

"We've sustained damage, sir. Some of it will need to be repaired before we can jump to hyperspace."

Ren asks how long it will take. With an answer of a few hours, he excuses himself to his quarters. They are stark and familiar. He falls into the bunk, exhausted.

Ren's rest is plagued with what has transpired. He's finally done what he'd set out to do: the Jedi, or any hope of their resurrection, have been wiped from the galaxy. The Republic is gone, in function if the facade of its form remains. The Resistance has finally been crushed.

He wakes after only a few short hours, somehow both entirely drained and too full of everything. He undresses, disgusted by the grit -- sandy soil, dry sweat and blood, electrical soot -- and drags his aching body into the refresher. It take a moment for the water in the shower to heat, the plumbing unused to working in his long absence. He sinks into the hard pound of the water when it's finally adequate, the pummeling force and temperature teetering toward intolerable soothing for his overworked body.

The shower fills with steam and the water runs muddy down over his shoulders and around his ankles. He relaxes fraction by fraction. Finally, he picks up the soap and begins to work it through his hair and over his body, breathing in the clean scent of the lather. The bubbles pop against his skin, frothy and fragile. If he were still under Snoke's thumb, this indulgence would be just that. Better to scour oneself clean quickly and efficiently, better to reflect on all that went wrong rather than savor the victory won. Even Skywalker, in another life, would have harangued him endlessly to meditate on how he might have done things differently. Now, Ren can simply appreciate the afterglow. Anything else could be dealt with later if it even needed dealing.

Ren lets himself go, releasing the tight clench of his muscles. He clears his mind, the lull of meditation drawing up close with the sound of the water hitting the walls and floor of the shower like white noise. There is a hole in the Force, new and gaping like a wound -- wet and bright and raw. He wants to run his fingers through it, feel the gore he's wrought. The space that used to be occupied by those he left dying or dead on the Hosnian moon is not _nothing_. It is _something_ angry and vibrating wasted potential. It fills him. Like too much dessert. Like a lover. His own hands on his body feel rough and foreign. His skin warms with more than just the shower.

Ren runs his fingers through his hair -- over the shells of his ears -- eyelids -- cheeks -- lips -- chin and throat. He touches his arms, his chest, his stomach. He traces the curves of his hips and tentatively caresses the small of his back.

He leans into the cool surface of the shower wall, just beyond the cloud of steam and curtain of water, and spreads himself. The warmth, the run of the water, is invigorating. With gentle fingers he touches himself, shivering at the light touch. He pauses, sucks on the bunt end of his middle finger, wrapping his tongue around and spreading saliva over the friction ridges. He reaches behind himself again and slowly, carefully, pushes the finger inside.

He presses his cheek to the wall, mouth slack and soft. It's not a pleasure he indulges in often, making it all the sweeter. He doesn't search, poking and prodding like too many foolish lovers. The stretch and press is enough. The soles of his feet tingle, the sensation crawling up his legs until it settles in his hips, building slowly until he knows he's getting hard. Other hand free to roam, he touches the hair that trails from navel to groin, tugging gently as he goes -- water making the strands cling to his fingers -- until his fingertips hit the well warmed metal of the cage. It is as if a switch has been flipped. The pleasant tingle turns sour, the light burn of the finger stretching his hole becomes a nuisance. He carefully removes his hand, slapping it in frustration against the wall. The sound of the contact echoes in the refresher like a crack of thunder.

Ren finishes his shower perfunctorily. He dries under the sonic and dresses in the uniform casuals that have gone so long untouched in the closet. Presentable again, he leaves his quarters, striding for the cross-beam shuttle with purpose.

"General, I need to speak with you -- now."

Hux turns on his heel, chin high and lips pursed haughtily. "Supreme Leader. We were just about to comm you with an update. We're nearly done with vital repairs, we'll make the jump within the hour. Your Knights have settled in on the Special Forces deck. Their craft have been secured and are being serviced."

Ren nods, curt and short. "That's all well and good, General, but I would speak with you _now,_ privately."

Hux puts his thumb against a datapad held out to him by some page. He authorizes whatever needs authorizing and turns back to Ren, touching the sliver of his chest between the lapels of his greatcoat. Touching the place where beneath his jacket, the key and his tags rested against his sternum. It's a flagrant display of insolence, a power play.

Ren won't tolerate it. Not here on the bridge in front of _his_  crew, on _his_  flagship. Ren drops his shoulders back and pulls his features into the closest semblance of composure he can muster. "Now," he says, resounding and final.

Hux tells Unamo that the bridge is hers and follows Ren wordlessly away from the bustling hub of activity.

Ren turns abruptly into the first available room. The door hisses shut behind them and he hits the _Do Not Disturb_ button on the access panel. There is no need for light. This room is a viewing theater, designed to corral investors and public officials and show them the Order's might firsthand. There are a few rows of elevated seats and a space in front before a large viewport. It seems appropriate to Hux, as Ren is gearing up for a performance judging by the tight hitch of his shoulders and the deep red of his ears.

Although there is no Hosnian sun to light the room, there is more than enough from the Finalizer's outer components just outside. It's almost romantic.

Perhaps, Hux will later think, it's the way Ren is dressed that gives him the confidence to speak so frankly, so boldly. It is a private conversation, but it is not a private moment between them. There is a layer of structural formality that should have remained.

Perhaps it is just that Hux cannot contain his anger any better than Ren ever could. It spills out of him in unsustainable bursts after simmering for hours -- days -- months at a time.

"How dare you undermine my authority on the bridge," Hux spits through gritted teeth.

"You forget yourself, General. This is my ship, my bridge. These people are members of my army. The Order is  _mine._ " Ren growls it all out, low and threatening. "Your instructions were going to get my men killed. My ship destroyed."

Hux wants to shout at him. He couldn't have known that, been so assured of it. The entire play on the surface was a stroke of dumb luck. Ren has always deferred to Hux in matters of military movement. This time should have been no different.

"You forget, General, that not only are you  _not_ the Supreme Leader -- you do not have the tactical and strategic advantages that I have. That only I have."

"Who put you there?" Hux counters. "Who supported your claim after all of your cowardly lies? The girl killed Snoke -- please, it was plain as day what you'd done and you were too afraid to admit it! You didn't claim your place. I installed you. You'd do well not to forget that."

Hux snarls and snaps as he speaks. Ren crowds him, a great lurching, hulking thing. Hux backs away, inching across the floor by some primitive instinct to survive. His back touches the viewport, cool even though the layers of his coat and uniform.

"Enough!" Ren roars, just inches from Hux's face. "I'm tired of your fucking games! All of them! You want to be Supreme Leader? You want to rule? Then _take it_ and stop hiding behind me -- stop pretending you can use me like some giant puppet -- your personal scapegoat!"

Hux stiffens as Ren reaches inside his coat and yanks his blaster from the holster. It's programmed to respond to Hux's fingerprints. He's not sure that fail-safe will work against Ren. He's startled at what Ren does with it, turning it on himself, pressing the muzzle against his chest, metal clicking against the plasto buttons of his shirt. "Pull the trigger yourself for  _once_ instead of hiding behind an army or an assassin."

They stare each other down, breath for breath, both starting and stopping and gasping in frustration.

"You fool," Hux finally spits, "put that down." He knocks the blaster from Ren's hands and it clatters against the floor.

Ren cannot remember what he had pulled Hux from the bridge for, only that he had been so consumed by that raw red anger in the Force and his own impotent frustration.

"Say it," Ren whispers, nose to nose with Hux.

"Say what?" He drawls, arrogant.

"That I am the leader of this army -- of this galaxy -- that  _I_ \--"

"You are the Order," Hux whispers, cutting him off, angry and defeated.

"That's right," Ren continues, just barely audible. He rests his forehead against Hux's, tension draining from his body in a sudden rush. He lays a big hand against Hux's chest, keeping him in place. Outside the viewport, realspace drops away in a flash of light and hyperspace lurches into focus.

"Kylo," Hux coos. "This is my fucking ship."

"That you command at my pleasure -- for my pleasure. There are others who would be more than capable of assuming your position, _Armitage_."

Hux turns pink from his throat to his hairline and grabs Ren's chin, leveling a heavy look at him. Ren fists his hand in the front placket of Hux's uniform jacket in response. Wordlessly they grope at each other, yanking at buttons and fastenings. Ren pushes the coat from Hux's shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, presses him back against the viewport again. Hux yanks him in close while he fumbles with the collar of the jacket, two hands gripped tight in the fabric of Ren's shirt. His teeth graze Ren's jaw, his cheek, close almost painfully on the lobe of his ear. He manages with some difficultly to bare Hux from the waist up before he's released, practically pushed away.

Hux backs him up until he's forced to sit, tripping into the first row of the theater seats. Hux's tags, and the key, swing out and nearly smack Ren in the face when he leans forward, planting a hand on each arm rest. Ren grabs the bunch and tugs, yanking Hux forward.

Hux licks his lips and leans into the tug, "Are you absolutely certain I'm so easily replaced, Supreme Leader?" He nuzzles sweetly against the side of Ren's face. "Take that fucking uniform off, _Kylo Ren_."

Ren turns his head to bite at Hux, whatever he can reach, trapped as he is. "I should, it's beneath me."

Hux rears back and the chain slips from Ren's grip. Hux seizes the front of his shirt and rips it open. The veins in his forearms stand out. His hands shake. Plasto buttons ping off of the surrounding chairs and skitter across the floor. "Take it off."

Ren hurriedly takes off the shirt and sets to work on his boots, so focused on his task he does not realize Hux is doing the same. When he looks up, Hux is resplendent in the bright glow of hyperspace beyond the viewport. Ren kicks his trousers away and takes two steps -- three steps -- he gathers Hux into his arms, mouthing at the curve of his neck and shoulder and backing him toward the transparisteel once again. Hux indulges just a moment before shaking him off.

"Get on the floor." Ren hesitates. "Now."

Ren sits slowly, keeping his eyes on Hux. He eases himself down, wincing at the chill of the steel floor against his bare skin. Hux steps forward, standing over him, and plants a foot against his chest. Ren goes down willingly.

"Do you think that I wouldn't? Couldn't? You're _expendable_ , Kylo Ren. You're a _symbol_ of power, just like Snoke."

Ren flushes bright red from hairline to hairline. Embarrassment and rage boil under his skin, heat radiating from the point of contact between he and Hux.

Hux drops onto his knees fluidly, one planted against Ren's sternum, the other on the floor beside him. Ren watches him, can feel the gears in his head spinning.

"A mouth like yours isn't suited for giving orders. Not on my ship." He strokes himself and Ren is so sure of his intent. He opens his mouth, waiting and wanting. All of Hux's many moods, his flavors, leave Ren wanting. It's almost a relief when Hux finally lets the end of his cock rest on Ren's tongue. It's a natural rhythm they fall into, Ren's head cradled in Hux's hands and his cock in Ren's mouth. Arousal spins out into Ren's limbs as he sucks and he is as hard as he can manage. He shivers again at the cold, drawing his knees up to minimize his contact with the floor. Hux moans with Ren's hands on him, clutching at his thighs and his backside.

Hux braces himself against the floor, knee pressing into Ren's shoulder painfully. He pants, root nearly touching the end of Ren's nose. "Stars, I want your mouth." Hux shivers bodily and Ren gags around him, face growing hot and eyes watering. "I want it on me."

Ren coughs, mouth wet and red when Hux pulls out. He strokes Ren's face, wipes the tears where they drip over his temples into his hairline. "I want it," Ren rasps. He licks his lips, trying to stop the smear of saliva at the corners from spreading. "Give it to me."

Hux shifts his weight away from Ren. "Close your eyes," he orders. He turns, shuffling on his knees, and settles them on either side of Ren's head, bracketing him in place. Ren defies orders, opening his eyes at the press of Hux's knees into his shoulders. There is the barest hint of embarrassment and hesitation in Hux's movement. Ren watches, hunger gnawing at him while Hux gets settled, lowering himself carefully, spreading himself. Ren moans into the weight and heat of him, licking into the shallow cleft and tasting salt. 

Hux gasps and lets out soft, high, pleased sounds. He shifts his weight slowly from side to side, settling lower, deeper -- pressing Ren firmly into the floor. Ren's focus zeroes in on the body above him, the ripple and clutch of muscle against his tongue. Everything is strange and dreamlike in the tiny snatches of hyperspace light that break through the infinitesimal spaces between them. He grabs at Hux's thighs and waist with greedy fingers, gripping and squeezing. He curls his toes, hips stuttering in empty air and the muscles that so want to drive his climax to its peak twitching ineffectually.

Hux smacks his hands away. "Lie still," he snarls and leans forward. Ren gulps in the air that his pleasure-addled brain forgot it needed. Hux rakes his neatly trimmed nails over Ren's chest and stomach.

Ren breathes deep, heat and weight overwhelming him again when Hux sits back. Trembling, he straightens his legs, toes pointed and calves tight. Hux jerks and shakes above him, stroking his cock fast and rough the way he always does -- no room for slow indulgence, only interested in getting off quick and hard and completely. His thighs clench tight around Ren's ears, knees pressing in hard, hair yanked by the tiny shifts. Ren cannot help the deep, needy sound he makes when Hux's hole twitches against his lips as he comes, spilling and splattering across the pale expanse if Ren's body.

Hux cannot catch his breath. Ren persists, licking up against him -- into him -- and it is deliciously overwhelming. He laughs, blinded by hyperspace when he looks up. He cannot support himself, core too wobbly with low after-burn of climax. He leans forward, a hand against Ren's chest, and laughs again at the tentative felinx licks at his sac.

"Stop -- stop, enough," he wheezes. "St-stay. Stay where you are." Hux moves off of Ren, utterly boneless. Ren begins to sit up and Hux's mouth twists with sleepy vindictiveness. A hand at his throat, Hux pushes Ren back down. "You never know how to obey orders." With effort, Hux sits astride his waist. His breathing is still uneven, his skin splotched with bright red and deathly pale spots. He watches Ren for a moment, eyes darting and searching. "Open your mouth," he says, thick and dark.

Ren obeys.

Hux drags his fingers through cooling spots of pearly emission. It smears across Ren's skin, clings to Hux's fingertips. Without ceremony, Hux slips his fingers into Ren's mouth, scraping them clean against his teeth. He does it again and again, sweeping up every drop of himself.

"Suck," he orders.

Ren sucks, luxurious and diligent. Hux presses his fingers down against Ren's tongue. He gags delicately before Hux relents. One last streak, entirely cold and too sticky, gets smeared across Ren's overused lips.

"What a pretty picture you make, Supreme Leader." Warm, buzzy satisfaction rolls in waves across Ren's skin and he melts into the floor.

Ren remains in the theater long after Hux leaves. He sits in his ruined uniform casuals, watching the lights of hyperspace zoom by the viewport. He is debased, as ruined as the shirt on his back. He cannot allow this to continue. He cannot continue to allow Hux this power over him. If only the act of submission wasn't so sweet. It is so easy to let Hux have it. He takes more than Hux will ever realize that he is giving. Ren stays in the theater until the Finalizer drops from hyperspace. A page comes to the door and speaks to him through the comm.

They are preparing the shuttles to ferry those who will be returning planetside. They will be ready at the Supreme Leader's pleasure. Ren waits until the page leaves and does his best to make himself presentable, tucking the shirt carefully into the trousers. He smells of sweat and sex and he knows it. He returns to his quarters and showers under the sonic, quick and efficient. The casuals go into the laundry chute, his familiar robes already cleaned and returned by the attentive protocol droid powered down in its cubby.

He redresses and makes his way down to the hangar. He silently takes his place in the pilot's seat of his Upsilon and navigates toward his planetside base. Dawn has broken over the twenty-sixth day. He sleeps.

Hux teases Ren relentlessly over the next three days.

He hardly leaves Ren's side. He is constantly there, constantly whispering and offering little touches. Publicly, he is forever finding reasons to be close, giving quiet counsel and touching his hands and wrists as they work together to prepare for what comes next. The galaxy must be informed that the Resistance is dead.

Ren and Hux are like teenagers fumbling and groping at each other in the shadows of the passages beneath the compound and behind the doors of maintenance closets and electronics hubs. It's ridiculous and unbecoming, Ren thinks each time, even as he's letting Hux suck a fresh bruise into the hollow of his throat and squeeze frustratingly at his balls under the draping layers of his clothes. He finds himself negotiating space and time in order to remain close to Hux, to optimize his chances of being fulfilled in  _some_ way. And he does, with some success.

Ren does not come. He finds, increasingly and rapidly in the course of those three standard days, that he does not need to. He has picked apart each of his most recent encounters with Hux, each one that has ended in orgasm and emission. Ren realizes that each climax has been disappointing and frustrating. He cannot get hard the way his body wants to, cannot get soft again in that sleepy, comforting way that he has grown so used to -- depleted to satisfaction. Instead, he is satisfied with that strange flowing feeling; like cool water circulating in his veins and belly and head, flowing through him and over him. It leaves him present and alert, aware of each singing nerve. As the feeling recedes, relief takes its place.

While Ren still feels starved for the comfort of skin-to-skin touch, he finds the hunger less and less immediate.

He is a thief, taking more from this game than Hux knows he has given.

On the morning of the thirtieth day, the grounds of the compound are littered with holocam news crews.

Ren's private staff will assist him in dressing. His closest advisers have stepped in to select his wardrobe for the day, designing the aesthetic to echo both their military might and the royal status that the  _Supreme Leader_ has assumed. Privately, Ren has instructed on the construction of protective items. He has no fantasies that the day will be without risk. His Knights will be close. They will be alert, scanning the crowd and dipping their metaphoric toes into the pools of the minds of those allowed nearer contact and access. Ren considers the traditions of the Naboo -- handmaidens and decoys and bodyguards attending their queens -- but he is too proud to put the tradition into practice.

His staff is quiet in the way that the world is very quiet before a storm. They help him into the many layers of his robes, carefully fitting the hidden armor within them. Obvious only are the outermost pieces -- the finely worked gorget and vambraces, the heavily woven bodice. It sits uncomfortably, rubbing the dumb flesh of the scarring at his neck and flank.

"I would have a word with the Supreme Leader." Hux's voice rings through the outer chamber, floats in the open door to Ren's private quarters. He can hear someone object softly, falteringly, before Hux's steady bootfalls against the floor approach. Hux addresses him stiffly, waiting with his chin held high until Ren dismisses the staff. "I hope that you fully realize gravity of the day, Supreme Leader."

He steps in close behind Ren, seizing the cords of the bodice where they had been dropped. Ren braces himself, determined not to flinch. He takes a deep breath, filling his chest with it. Hux's fingers work through the weave of the cords, loosening and tightening until the garment is straight and even. He pulls the cords tight. Ren must steady himself, hands spread across his abdomen.

"Of course I do, General. Don't be foolish."

"I wonder, Kylo, had life been different -- had Alderaan not been destroyed -- would you have killed Organa for the throne then as well?"

"What I really think you're asking, Armitage, is if you'd be the one preparing to address the galaxy now? If not for Alderaan," he pauses to laugh, "I wouldn't exist."

"Humor me."

"I imagine n- _ah_!"

Hux pulls the cords tighter and begins to knot them off. He holds the tails out to Ren, not sure what to do with the remaining length. Ren continues as he weaves the cords around his waist, forming an anchor where his saber will rest.

"I imagine not. Alderaan was a matriarchy. Even if I had been the eldest or only child of whatever union Organa finally made, I wouldn't have ever been raised with the expectation of rule." He pauses, just the barest hint of nostalgia making his chest clench. "I could have, perhaps, eventually taken over the governorship of Birren. If not for Alderaan, our paths may have crossed in other ways." He looks at Hux, dressed in his formal uniform. The stripes of his rank gleam silver against sleeves so black he may have been cloaked in realspace. He cuts a nice figure. "We both know how that went, though."

Ren turns away from Hux and sits down to pull his boots on. It's a bit of a struggle with his torso held so upright. He would have preferred to wear in the narrow durasteel springs that serve for boning to hold the heavy woven fabric and ceramic plating beneath in place. A larger range of movement would benefit him if it comes to it that the armored bodice is a necessity. They'd only finished fitting it just an hour before it was time to dress, pracically sewing him into the robes beneath.

"I do wonder, sometimes, if Organa had not been fool enough to try to distract Sindian with the governorship, if she had chosen a regent to serve until I might have taken her place... I wonder if any of this might ever have come to pass. She would have led the whole fucking Republic if not for that music box." Ren raises a brow and shrugs in as nonchalant a manner as he can muster.

"I have something for you, Supreme Leader."

"Oh?"

"A gift, you might say. In honor of such an important day."

"How generous of you," Ren purrs, taunting just a little.

"Stand up." Hux's tone is short and sharp, like he's speaking to a trooper rather than his superior. Ren tucks it away in his mind, a tally in a column that he's never sure if he needs or not. He complies it all the same.

Hux crowds him against the edge of the bed where he'd been sitting, moving in close enough that he must put the toe of one boot between Ren's to accommodate the lack of space between them. Hux's nose slides along his, gentle and nearly tender. He leans into it, his face soon buried in Ren's hair. Hux bites down on his earlobe before he whispers softly, "Bend over."

Ren shivers and turns and walks himself forward on his palms. Hux doesn't allow him the room to simply bend. Ren is confused and excited. His cock twitches, reminding him of his close confines in a way that make his bones ache for the first time since he was beneath Hux on the floor of the Finalizer, hyperspace flashing around them.

When his belly is against the mattress, Hux grabs at the flowy bulk of his skirts, crushing perfectly pressed layers of silk and flimsi-thin leather in his fists. He flips the bundle up over Ren's waist and peels his leggings down. The waistband catches beneath him, tugging at the the unyielding shape of the lock on the cage and tugging on the root of him, sending lazy sparks through him. Stuck as it is, the waistband is pulled tight, digging in beneath the curve of his backside. Ren imagines it puts him just as much on display as the cage does.

Hux is pressing up against him, the cool fabric of his uniform shocking against the Ren's hot skin. It occurs to Ren in a lazy tiptoe sort of logic, that Hux intends to fuck him. He moans at the notion and the weight of Hux on top of him. He feels his face go slack, mouth open. And then, Hux is gone.

Ren's heart hammers in his chest, the sound of it a deafening rush in his ears. He begins to protest and halts -- Hux's fingers glide through his cleft, slick and smooth.

"Shall we test your mettle, Supreme Leader?"

Ren cranes his neck to see what Hux is doing behind him. There is something in his hands, polished smooth but not shining. The shape of it rings familiar someplace deep in the back of Ren's mind. Hux holds it, runs it down in the path his fingers had taken, wetting the surface of the thing in his hand. Ren is both entirely sure of what it is, what Hux means to subject him to, and utterly mystified.  
  
Hux is saying something, very many somethings, in the hazy distance between the mattress and ceiling. None of it registers beyond a quiet drone for Ren. He's trying to justify the indignity of the thing Hux wants -- to go before the galaxy, their Supreme Leader, with his cock is a cage and a plug in his hole.  
  
"Stop," Ren whispers. "Wait."  
  
The gentle taper of the thing is poised against him. His body responds without him, clenching and tensing in anticipation, but willing and waiting to accommodate the plug.  
  
The air around Hux seems to seize. He makes no move. "Do you want to end our game?"  
  
It's obvious now that this has become a part of it, volumes of meaning presenting themselves in just a few words. The game may have started innocuously enough, escalated by both of their unyielding temperaments; but it's different now, something else entirely.  
  
"No," Ren says in a clear voice.  
  
The weight of the plug when he relaxes and it slides inside is overwhelming. It's not like the teasing, light silicone thing Hux favors. The base is designed to fit with the curve of his body, a handle of sorts. One end rests comfortably in his cleft. The other, he realizes, will cradle him, teasing the nerves behind his sac relentlessly when he stands.  
  
Ren is surprised as the sudden warmth of skin-on-skin behind him. Hux rests his cheek against Ren's backside, eyelashes tickling almost innocently. Ren hisses at a jolt of pain, Hux's teeth closing on his flesh briefly.  
  
Ren feels dumb and heavy when Hux retreats. He rolls the leggings back into place and flips the skirts at Ren's waist down again, smoothing them perfunctorily. Ren eases himself up from the mattress, a little light-headed, and turns to face Hux. He lifts his chin and rolls his shoulders back, drawing himself as long and tall as he can.

"You didn't answer my question, Supreme Leader."

"What?" Ren crosses the room and lifts the outermost robe he's to wear from its form. He settles it on his shoulders, using the long seconds it takes to school his expression and make reason of what he's just done.

"Would you have killed Organa for the throne?"

"I wouldn't have had reason."

Hux is silent.

"The people of Alderaan would never have suffered it. What does it matter, General? She's gone."

Hux purses his lips, expression haughty and knowing. "I'll see you outside, Supreme Leader."

The main entrance of the compound is styled much like a public palace. There are sweeping steps and a midpoint landing. There is the stone of the upper steps to Ren's back, two of his Knights and his General flanking him both for show and protection. The rest of the Knights are poised strategically, watching the crowd below and the sky above for threats. The crowd is massive. There are bodies packed into every inch of available space, holocams on the ground and hovering in the air. Ren's message will be broadcast across the galaxy, beamed out beyond into Wild Space. While he speaks in Basic, banks of droids will translate his words into the legislative languages of every system under the Order's command. The soft lavender of the morning light makes everything appear as if in a fairytale. The soft, warm breeze makes Ren's skirts flutter and lifts the fine strands of hair away from his forehead. He steps forward -- strong, heavy boot emerging from the silks and leathers around his legs. He takes a deep breath and feels the weight of Hux's gaze on his back like a yoke. A recorder-droid zooms in and hovers over his shoulder. He can see his reflection in its lens out of the corner of his eye.

"The sun has set on the New Republic," he begins. "There is no system in which the Resistance, violent rebels with no care for the safety of the people they claim to protect and sanctity of the spaces they took up, still finds safe harbor -- its leaders, its commanders... are gone. The Jedi are no more. A new sun shines on the First Order."

It is well past midnight when the compound is finally cleared. Dignitaries are seen to their guest quarters or shuttles. The news scribes are dealt with. The staff looks relieved to be finally closing the place down for the night. Ren waves away his personal staff when they come to assist him in undressing. They succeed in getting his outer robe; thieves come to ravish his corpse before it's cold, he imagines.

He needs to be alone. He needs to think.

He's effectively painted a target on his back. He knows this.

Dismantling the Republic, crushing the Resistance -- none of that makes him secure in his place at the top. If anything, it has made him more vulnerable than ever before. Without a common enemy to focus on or be thrown at, those who would have his seat may now turn their attention where it matters. He knows that those closest to him are perhaps the most dangerous.

Ren is on the balcony, gaze fixed on the bright disc of the moon in the star-starved sky, when Hux invites himself into Ren's rooms. "You did well today, Supreme Leader."

He sounds put-out. Ren thanks him, gestures that Hux might join him on the balcony. He's still wearing the sweeping silk cape he'd donned for the broadcast and the endless hours of brown-nosing and alliance-making that followed. The clips balance his shoulders, the delicate chain across his chest shining as bright as the stripes on his sleeve. He looks like he's auditioning for Ren's role.

"I've noticed something, General." Ren turns his attention back to the moon. The stupid music box that had set him on this path had played a song about a moon. "You don't carry your blade anymore."

"I don't need to."

"Oh?"

Hux doesn't answer. He steps in close behind, places his hands on Ren's waist. He noses in, breathing in with his face in Ren's hair, his neck shielded by the gorget from any mouthy assault. "Let me feel it," he says instead.

Ren's knees feel jellied. Hux reaches around him, rifling through the front of his skirts, parting them like a curtain. Ren sighs, body sagging into Hux's loose embrace. He holds his breath and bites his tongue. Hux's hands are hot through his leggings, cupping the cage -- cupping him -- caressing the space below his navel and the join of his legs and rolling his sac in the tight space of the synthleather.

"You're still wearing it." Hux doesn't need to ask. He knows Ren hasn't removed the plug; he couldn't any more than he could have taken the cage off. Ren feels hot, stifled under the layers of his clothes and the ridiculous, fashionable armor. Hux is waiting for an answer.

"Yes," Ren groans. It had been sweet torture. Unable to sit -- standing only making the weight of the thing more pronounced. He'd needed to excuse himself more than once simply to catch his breath as the night wore on. The first few hours had been easy, a battle of will that he'd won as soon as he stepped out in front of the crowd. But after, when he no longer had a script to follow and focus on? The delegate from Shu-Torun absolutely thought him disturbed.

"Good."

Ren allows himself to be manhandled. Hux pitches him forward, makes him brace himself against the railing of the balcony. The stone is chilly even through vambrace and sleeve. Hux's hands grope at the cords of the bodice for a moment before abandoning it, favoring smoothing his hands over the taper of Ren's waist and squeezing tight instead. He gathers up the skirts carelessly and yanks the leggings down. Ren can hardly form a coherent thought. Hux's hands are on him, spreading him, and he is mumbling  _good_ and  _lovely_  in a voice thick like honey. Ren gasps and Hux's hand comes down hard.

"Careful, Hux," he croaks. His cheek stings, warmth spreading across his skin.

Hux's hands turn gentle, fingers working around the base of the plug. Ren tenses. He cannot be left bereft again, he  _can't._ If Hux means to deny him, he would rather dismiss him now, tend to himself.

"Relax," Hux orders. "Breathe."

Slowly, the plug slides out leaving him gaping and trembling. Ren tenses, shying away as much as he can in his predicament. Something falls, clangs against the stone floor and hits the heel of his boot.

"Kylo," Hux whispers, voice broken. His fingers are soft, gentle when he touches Ren's hole, when he probes inside. He's curling two in, rubbing inside Ren's rim in quick, deliberate motions. "Let me fuck you."

Ren hangs his head between his shoulders, relieved, legs shaking. " _Please._ "

There is a flurry of movement behind him. Ren imagines it in slow motion: Hux tossing his cape over his shoulders and out of the way. Unfastening his belt. Dropping it. Rucking up the hem of his jacket and fumbling with the closure of his jodhpurs and freeing his cock. How long has he been hard? Ren wonders, his own cock responding slowly within its confines. Hux hardly has to stroke himself before he is stepping in close again, hot flesh pressed up against Ren's cleft. He rubs himself there and Ren isn't sure if he wants to scream or burst into tears, on the edge of hysterics either way.

"Fuck me," Ren croaks. "Stars,  _fuck me_."

Hux is shoving inside with little ceremony, taking advantage of what little lubricant remains from the plug. His hands will not settle, first gripping the flesh of Ren's ass, then his hips, then the skirts, then the cords around his waist. Hux grabs at his hair, holding tight and fast. Ren is breathless with the way he is forced to bend against the resistance of the bodice, fingers scrabbling against the unforgiving stone of the railing. A smile paints itself across his mouth and he is  _hard_ \-- so painfully, immediately hard inside the cage. Hux's hips hit him over and over again, the clap of their bodies together cutting through the stillness of the night with something else -- a long, low, sustained moan that comes up from Ren's belly. His head is full of static as he comes, making a mess of his leggings and the layers of his skirts. Hux whines, high and loud and pushes Ren forward with his hips, forcing him flush against the rail.

Ren's body is still pulsing, glowing with sensation when Hux pulls out and stumble-shuffles to the rail beside him. "Fuck," Hux mutters. "Fuck."

Ren's scalp hurts. His back aches. He's breathless in the embrace of the bodice. He begins to laugh. Slowly, he straightens. The skirts fall down, covering him -- his ruin. The fine silk of his sleeves is wrecked, pilled an pulled against the stone. He can't stop laughing, even when his stomach begins to hurt.

Hux makes a breathy sound, something like a laugh as well. "What now?" he asks. His face is bright red, even in nighttime light. His cock is soft, exposed. He notices Ren's glance and is suddenly uncharacteristically modest.

"Bed, I suppose." Ren laughs again, softer. "What else is there?"

The sun is streaming through the finger of space between the heavy drapes across the balcony doors when Ren is woken. Hux jostles his shoulder, calling his name quietly. Ren feels drained, a droid that desperately needs to get to its charging station. His limbs are like lead.

"Ren."

"What?"

"Your staff has been comm'ing all morning."

Ren fumbles with the datapad tossed carelessly on the bedside table. He dismisses the calls and requests and notifies them that he is not to be disturbed. Ren has no desire to leave his bed. Hux had helped him out of his clothes with clumsy fingers. The armor, the robes, the leggings and boots all sat in a careless heap on the floor with Hux's uniform, his cape tossed across the low couch, chain trailing on the floor.

"Are you hungry?" Ren asks. Hux shakes his head, watching Ren as he sits up in bed, lounging against the pillows.

"Supreme Leader," Hux murmurs, slinging an arm behind his head. "Our game is over."

"Hm?"

"Today is day thirty-one."

Ren begins to speak and then stops. He stutters. He closes his mouth.

"Kylo."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to be unlocked?"

Ren's chest clenches tight. He feels hot; too hot. His stomach flutters with nerves. He... he doesn't know.

"Kylo, please let me."

Ren is silent. He cannot bring himself to look at Hux for several heartbeats. "Alright."

Hux sits up, pushing the bedding away from the pair of them. His tags clink together against his chest, against the key. With a measure of sobriety, Hux lifts the chain over his head. He holds the tags out of the way and bends over Ren's body. He looks to him for a moment, for assurance. Ren nods and Hux slides the key into the lock. He turns it. The pins click into place and Hux removes the key, the cylinder attached. The pieces of the cage separate when Hux releases them. Slowly, gently, he slides the sheath away. Ren clenches his teeth, soft cock exposed in Hux's hands. With equal care Hux works the ring off.

Ren can't breathe.

Hux's hands are on him, warm and soft. He's not stroking him, not trying to get him hard. He is caressing, slowly running his fingers over the places where the ring met Ren's body -- scratching his well manicured nails through his hair -- rubbing, touching, teasing feather-light. Ren's gut burns with confusion. His cock begins to fill, twitching and swaying with the speed of it. His head is spinning. Hands trembling, his touches himself and gags on the wet sob that forces its way up his throat. WIth Hux still touching him, he strokes himself with purpose.

"Hux," he huffs. "I -- you --"

Hux straddles him reaching into the bedside table and producing the tube of liniment. A new one, of course, Ren having long since depleted what he started with. Hux gives him a sly look and reaches behind himself. He spares no hesitation in breaching himself, eyes closed and mouth open, fingers slick. Satisfied, he moves forward, a balancing hand on Ren's shoulder. He lowers himself, gaze steady, sighing heavily. Ren's heart is racing. He's forgotten what to do, his mind blank and overwhelmed.

Hux begins to move, setting his usual pace -- fast and hard, his own cock tight in his grip.

Ren can't do this, not this way. Fog lifting from his senses, he's sure of what he wants, what he needs. He seizes Hux's waist and pitches him over, shoving him down against the bedding. Hand planted against the mattress beside Hux's head, he eases himself inside again. The clutch of Hux's body is warm and close. Ren lowers himself, letting Hux feel his weight, burying his face against Hux's neck.

Ren is a cage; Ren is a warm, living shackle. Ren is a prison for Hux's ambition and insolence and greed.

He moves with lazy purpose, sliding his hips back and forth and mouthing at Hux's throat and shoulder. 

Hux grabs at Ren's hair, tugs at his ears. His mouth is open like he wants to speak, brows crinkled together in a disapproving expression.

Ren presses their lips together, biting, snarling softly.

Ren kisses him.

Kisses him.

Kisses him.

Hux tightens his grip, folds his legs around Ren's waist. He is muttering obscenities whenever they part, whisper-quiet and breathless. "I hate you," he mutters.

"I know," Ren responds, eyes stinging with salt.

Hux kisses him.

Kisses him.

Later, Ren watches Hux spear an olive on the end of a spindly, decorative fork with a measure of cruel decisiveness. He watches Ren with the tines between his teeth. He is sitting on the couch, bare chested, a pair of Ren's pants cinched tight around his waist. His lips shine with oil. He is comfortable in his place, perfectly at home in the Supreme Leader's quarters.

"Armitage," Ren asks quietly. "I have a proposal."

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Will Hux get a taste of his own medicine? My original tweets did have some additional thoughts...
> 
> Squick warning: Kylo gets a butt plug put in his mouth. It's been formerly in a butt. He enjoys the HECK out of it and so does Hux.
> 
> You can find me on twitter and [tumblr.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com/post/181110769374/undeniable-aryagreenleaf%22)


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